An Act of Piracy
by kaleidoscope heart
Summary: Jack Teague was an ordinary sort of fellow... that is, until an accidental act of piracy makes him Jack Sparrow and he learns how good being bad can be. JackOC eventually.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: **Hi guys! It's me again. Usually I hate long author's notes at the beginning but I needed to say a little bit first. First thing, this story was loosely based on the information regarding Jack Sparrow's background found on wikipedia but has been altered a bit. Think of it as my fiction over the skeleton of canon "facts" that have been provided. Secondly, Jack seems a bit OOC at first here. Those of you that have read my stuff before know that I love Jack just the way he is (the cad!) and I'm not about to change him. More so, this story is about Jack Sparrow _becoming _Jack Sparrow, so give me a little time and I promise to get you there. ;)

With that said, please please please review if you read so I know if you like it or not. The chapters will get longer as this progresses. Now, without further ado...

* * *

"_Perhaps on the rare occasion__ pursuing the __right course demands an act of piracy... __piracy itself can be the right course__?"_ - POTC, Governor Swann 

"_The time to make up your mind about people is never." _- The Philadelphia Story

* * *

_**An Act of Piracy**_

**Chapter One**

_"Aye! Avast ye scurvy dogs!"_

Jack Teague sat in the floor of his small home, wooden boat in hand. He pushed it through the rough blue "waters" of his mother's favorite rug and eyed her knitting out of the corner of his eye. He had to be sure to keep his voice low, lest his mother hear him talking like a pirate and box his ears. When it appeared this particular blasphemy had gone unnoticed, he continued.

"Raise the sails! Hoist the jib! Hard to starboard!" he whispered, repeating the instructions he had heard at the dock, stringing them together in a way he wasn't even sure was right. In front of him the fire blazed in the fireplace, warming his small hands as he pushed the little boat along.

Pirates were a sore subject in the Teague household, at least for his mother. Even at the tender age of eight, Jack had learned that what boded ill for Mrs. Teague boded ill for everyone. She was a wonderful woman, really... loving and kind. But ever since his father...

As if knowing that thought, the door swung open and banged back on its hinges. John Teague, _Captain_ John Teague (as he was constantly correcting people) stepped in. Or stumbled, as it were.

"Da!" Jack screamed, boat and imaginary pirates immediately forgotten as the real thing stood before him. He ran to him without thought and smiled when he collided into his father's legs. Captain Teague had to steady himself on the wall as his knees threatened to buckle, and Jack didn't think it was the hit that caused this.

"Aye, lad!" John Teague said, his voice gruff and commanding. Still, he reached down and ruffled Jack's hair. "Did ye miss the ol' Cap'n?"

Jack looked up at him with eyes that were full of adoration.

"I did! I did!" he said, but his father's eyes were now fixed solidly behind him, to his mother in her chair. Jack shifted a little; eight years old was not too young to realize what was going on around him, and he was a brighter boy than most. A fight was brewing in the Teague household, as strong as any storm at sea, and he had a feeling he was about to be caught up in the middle of it.

He tugged on his father's jacket and kohl-rimmed eyes swung down to look at him. Captain Teague was drunk, that much was certain... the spicy scent of rum rolled off of him in waves, but Jack didn't mind. His father wasn't a mean drunk; he didn't beat them like some of the other father's he knew of and he hardly ever yelled. Still, his mother despised the drink, and this was just more fuel to the inevitable fire.

Wanting to put it off, Jack offered his father his most charming smile.

"Did you bring me a present, Da?" he asked. His father smiled and clapped the young boy on the back with his right hand.

"Did ye think the Cap'n would come back to ye with nary a gift?" he laughed, and Jack jumped back, eager.

"Is it treasure?" he asked, nearly breathless with anticipation. Again, the Captain laughed.

"A boy after me own black heart! Is it treasure? Aye, t'is."

Out of his pocket he pulled five gold coins which Jack jumped to retrieve with wide eyes. He stood there for hours... no, minutes... no, seconds... (time was meaningless and happiness was such an easy thing to come by then) as the shine of the gold reflected back into his eyes. He moved his hand back and forth and watched the shine dance in the fire light. He looked back up at his dad and for one moment their dark eyes locked. Age was no difference. Eight or forty eight, they understood each other in that moment.

The Captain smiled.

"That's not all, lad," he said, and produced a large leather hat from hehind his back. Jack's eyes lit with joy that couldn't even compare with that from a moment ago.

"Is that a _pirate_ hat?" he asked, barely above a whisper. Again the Captain laughed, and plopped the hat on Jack's head. It was too large, not made for a child, and slumped over his eyes.

"Aye, boy. Stole it off a dying man meself! And now that ye have a hat be fitting a pirate, you can be one just like..."

That was it. That little phrase was the thing to end it. Jack's mother stood, knitting hitting the floor, not allowing him to finish the statement his father had been about to make.

"John, enough!"

Jack looked at her, her familiar face twisted and unrecognizable by the emotions that coursed through her. Had he been old enough, Jack might have been able to read the mixture of pain and anger, love and loss that so clearly lined his mother's face. As it was, he took one look at his mother's face and simply knew it was time for him to leave. He was too young to understand her despair but old enough to know there must have been a good reason behind it. A reason he was simply too inexperienced to understand.

Taking the hat off, he backed away from his father and looked back to his mum, who nodded at him curtly. He understood completely, and grabbed his boat from the floor to take with him to his room. He paused in the doorway, wooden boat and hat pressed tightly into his chest, and looked at his parents. They were outsiders, their emotions too big and alien to understand.

Why were adults so complicated? He didn't think being a pirate was so bad.

He put the hat back on his head and smiled.

In fact, he kind of liked the idea.

* * *

_Sixteen years later..._

"Mistuh Teague? Mistuh Teague? Mistuh..."

"Captain, son," Jack said dryly, without opening his eyes. He was sitting in the back of some pub (Jack hadn't cared to find out the name) with his feet on the table, looking thoroughly unapproachable. Or so he had thought. Until he had been approached.

"I'm sorry, Cap'n. Mum asked me to fetch ye. Said she tol' you this morning but was expecting ye might forget... Miss Houghton is coming over tonight. For dinner."

Jack's eyes flew open and looked at the small servant boy, Joshua, whose mother was the housekeeper. Hearing those words, Jack could hardly help himself... he winced in such a dramatic way that the boy almost laughed out loud.

"Joshua, lad, _son..._ why don't you do the ol' Captain a favor and tell her I was called out to sea. That I..."

The boy shifted, clearly nervous.

"Mum said you might say that. She told me to tell you that you told her that last time." Jack opened his mouth but the boy went on, "And the time before that."

Jack sighed and touched his chin, leaning back a little farther. "So I did." He thought for a moment, the rum on the table nearly tempting him into sending the boy back with another lie. Joshua shifted once more and Jack figured he'd been given orders by his nosy biddy of a mother to not leave until the Captain had agreed to come home for dinner.

"Yes, well, tell Miss Houghton to expect me at seven," he said, realizing he had no way out. Taking his feet from the table, he leaned forward to grasp his rum.

"Yessir, but she's going to be there at half past six," the boy said. Jack took a gulp of his rum but otherwise his look was unwavering.

"She'll wait," he said, and he knew he was right. Caroline Houghton may have been a good many things, but assertive was not of them. You didn't have to know her well to know that much about her, and Jack knew her better than he cared to.

Joshua nodded, his courage spent, and scurried out of the pub. That left Jack alone at his table, with only his rum and his thoughts for company. Sighing again, he finished his rum in one great swig and slammed the cup down on the table. No one turned to look at him, and that was fine by Jack. The only problem now, with the boy AND the rum gone, was that he was left with only his thoughts.

Groaning, he rubbed his face.

His thoughts were this:

Jack Teague considered himself to be an uncomplicated sort of man. He had a steady job for the East India Trading Company (which he didn't love) sailing the seas of the Caribbean (which he did). He also had a steady stream of women who thought he was "handsome" and giggled when he walked the docks in his Captain's uniform. He ended most of his days like the other sailors did: in a pub surrounded by women and rum (thought he liked to think he was surrounded by more women than most). Life wasn't perfect but it was predictable, and Jack was constantly telling himself that there was no reason to be unsatisfied with it when there was nothing outright wrong with it. It was just, well, a bit boring perhaps.

There was one problem, but that problem was a big one. Jack had a terrible vice and it was neither women nor the drink: it was curiosity. He often wondered for hours about the outer reaches of the map... the blank places he had never visited and the seas never sailed. Every time he left with a ship and crew he found it harder and harder to return to land. Every new place he saw made him wonder about the ones he would never see. It was almost as if there was a hold inside of him that could never be filled. Not a heartache, per say. Just an... empty space, really.

His mother had spent many a day telling him how silly it was to let himself get so carried away, and he had listened to each lecture knowing she was right. He was an adult now, after all, he thought wryly. Well beyond the age of entertaining ideas of piracy. He should do his job, enjoy his rum, and marry the girl that had been promised to him.

Caroline Houghton.

Now _that_ was complicated.

She was the daughter of the governor, a pretty girl with auburn hair and pale skin. She was everything he should have wanted: polite, attractive, and well-bred. His dear old mum had nearly died of shock and relief when he'd told her they were to be wed. But despite these things... nay, _because _of these things... Jack found her completely undesirable. She never spoke up out of turn and she never became angry when treated unjustly. In fact, she rarely showed any type of emotion at all. She bored him and, because his life bored him as well, she had become the thing in which to define all that unhappiness. She was the reason he was so restless and uncertain.

She was the reason for all of this.

Frowning, he looked out the window, watching the sun slide down the length of sky as seven o'clock drew ever nearer.

"More rum!" he called to the bar wench, and she began making her way towards him. Rum might not have fixed everything but... wait a minute. What the devil was he on about? Of course rum fixed everything!

The bar wench filled his glass with rum and smiled at him. He met her smile with one that could only be described as wicked, and raised his glass to the room.

"Here, here!" he shouted, and the girl settled herself into his lap.

Across the room, several men answered his toast with a smile, not even knowing why and not caring. Such was the way of sailors (_and pirates_), they were prepared to toast to just about damn anything.

Even if the toast was to loss of freedom.

Aye, even then.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN:** Hi guys, first off thanks for the encouraging reviews! I love you guys! Now, I'm trying to cut down on AN's but just wanted to say that this has a bit of a slow start. I have A LOT to set up for this story. But I promise if you'll be patient with me, I'll make it worth it when we get there! ;) That said, please review and continue to let me know what you think.

* * *

_**An Act of Piracy**_

**Chapter Two**

Jack had planned on being late (and, in the sake of full disclosure, was not one bit sorry for it either), but he had _not _planned on running into Lord Cutler Beckett on his way home from the pub. Such encounters with the man he was forced to report to were always unexpected because Jack avoided them at all costs. It was, of course, impossible to never speak with your superiors and Jack found that he could be quite impressive when he had to be. From his father, young Jack had picked up the qualities of mischievousness and the wisdom that resulted from it. From his mother he had learned that not everyone appreciated those qualities, and how to mask them when needed.

And so it happened that as Jack stepped out into the dim light of the setting sun, he heard Lord Cutler Beckett call his name.

"Captain Teague?"

Jack stiffened, recognizing the voice, and made a face before turning to it with a smile. He put his hands out in welcome, unable to bring himself to clasp them behind his back the prissy way that Beckett did, and waited to be approached.

When Beckett was in front of him, Jack bent at the waist in a way only he knew was mocking and said, "Sir."

When he looked up, Beckett was staring at him in that way that he had: all knowing and a little bit amused. Though he was barely a few years older than Jack himself, the fastidious man with the cruel smile already had most of the men (including Joshamee Gibbs, though he'd die before admitting it) in a cloud of fear. Beckett had started high in the ranks of the East India Trading Company and had only continued to move up in his few years involved. Already he had a reputation for cruelty and it seemed he didn't mind who or what he stepped on the way up... not that this bothered Jack in the least.

As long as he wasn't the one being stepped on.

"Captain Teague," Beckett repeated, as if delighted in the title. Jack had to fight down an inappropriate response and barely succeeded. He knew he could behave himself when he wanted to... the problem was, he wanted to so rarely.

"Leaving the docks a bit early tonight, are we? And I was under the impression that you finished all your nights passed out in a puddle of rum?"

Jack looked at the fussy little man in front of him and smiled effortlessly. He had made grown women swoon with less effort.

"Every night I can," he agreed. Beckett shifted, frowning slightly. He seemed unsure how to deal with such open wickedness. Jack didn't give him the chance to come up with anything, however, and soon continued. "As it were, tonight I am expected back for dinner..." He gestured in the direction of town, and polite context filled in the rest.

Beckett nodded and smiled that same, tight smile... that smile that so clearly said, "You will be allowed to leave when I dismiss you." It was this kind of thing that precisely drove the other Captains mad; that Beckett could shame and anger them with one twist of his lips. Not Jack though, whose reputation for being easy-going was as well known as Beckett's for cruelty. No, for Jack it had become something of a game: Beckett wished to break him, and attempted to every time they spoke. Jack refused to give him the pleasure. The harder Beckett tried, the more amused Jack became. It was a game that could not end well, but for now Jack was enjoying himself immensely.

"Then I won't keep you long," Beckett started, and he looked positively pleased with himself, "Just a matter of business I wanted to bring up before the day was finished."

Jack looked at him, knowing it couldn't be good if the obnoxious little bugger was bursting at the seams to tell him. He waited for Beckett to continue.

"As of one week from today, you will be relieved of your duty running the supply boats to England. You have been, shall I say, relocated?" He smiled, a look Jack didn't even attempt to mirror. Nodding at the befuddled look on the Captain's face, he went on, "I think you will find your new job to be much better suited to a man of your means. Of course, such discussion with have to wait until a later time, when you are not expected elsewhere."

Jack looked at him, long and hard, wanting to demand Beckett explain himself. _But that's just what he wants you to do, mate,_ he told himself, and forced another smile. He refused to be so obviously baited.

Tipping his head at him with a politeness that could only be patronizing, Jack said, "Right you are sir. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

"It seems to me," Beckett started, and Jack almost groaned aloud. "That you should be aware of the position you find yourself in. Especially after your father..." here Beckett trailed off, but the flutter of his hand that he lent the silence said more than the worst insults strung together. For once, Jack felt himself growing angry and had to widen his smile.

"True sir, all very true."

Beckett looked at Jack, as if trying to decide if he was patronizing him or not. Jack had to fight back the urge to say, "Aye mate, that I am," and settled instead with keeping his wide smile.

"Furthermore, I don't believe you understand the position that _I _myself am in because of you. The East India Trading Company is taking a great gamble, hiring the son of a common criminal. I should think that if you couldn't be grateful that you could, at the very least, remember that."

Jack looked at Beckett for a long time and now moved his hands behind his back, opening and closing the fists in an attempt to gain control of his emotions. He would not give this stuffed shirt bastard the pleasure of his anger. No, he would be good natured, jolly even. After all, Jack had seen first hand how intelligent men were underestimated when they played dumb, and being underestimated was the most important step in winning any battle.

Jack moved his hands back in front of him with a smile and Beckett jumped, his cool slipping. _The spineless son of whore thought I was going to strangle him!_ Jack thought, and the extra push of confidence was enough to make the smile genuine.

"Sir... Your Lordiness, as it were," Jack started, and laid his hand over his heart as he stepped a little closer. He regarded his superior with that same unflinching smile. "I remember my slimy, weasly place all the time. In fact, I've spent many a night thinking about all the interestin' _positions_ I find myself in." Only the wicked gleam deep in his eye betrayed that innuendo. "And furthermore, I am completely confident in the fact that even if I were to forget, you would be right there to remind me. Am I right?" He patted Beckett on the shoulder. "Or am I right?"

Beckett's eyes narrowed to slits as he regarded the young captain. Jack Teague had the pity of people in high places, otherwise Beckett wouldn't have hesitated in destroying him quickly. As it was, the elderly Mrs. Teague was still well respected in society's inner circles, and Cutler had no desire to destroy his own chances early on over a mouthy son of pirate. Therefore, he would have to destroy Jack slowly over time, comment by comment, humiliation by humiliation. He never considered defeat, never wondered if Jack was somehow unbreakable. Everyone had their breaking point, and after all this time Beckett thought he might have finally found Captain Teague's.

"Now," Jack was continuing, "If you would be so kind as to excuse me... the soon-to-be Missus Teague is waiting for me at home and it would be most dishonorable to keep her waiting. Don't you agree?"

Jack backed away and Beckett gave him an oily smile.

"Yes, indeed. And we are both men of honor, aren't we?" he said, as if daring him to disagree. Jack wouldn't dream of such a thing.

"Of a sort, sir, I suppose we are."

And with that, Jack excused himself.

Beckett's words and insinuations followed him as he walked the streets to home, hearing that prissy voice saying over and over, _"It seems to me that you should be aware of the position you find yourself in. Especially after your father..." _

_Became a pirate_, had been the end to that sentence. Jack snorted, trying to snuff out the anger.

If honor was what Beckett had, he wanted nothing of it.

Jack Teague could think of a lot worse things to be than a pirate.

* * *

On the way back from the docks, he made fun of "his Lordiness" nearly the whole way, taunting,_ "We are both men of honor, aren't we?" _in a high voice that sounded nothing like Lord Cutler Beckett. No matter; it made him feel better all the same. In fact, he was in rather high spirits when he finally strolled into his house at eight o'clock, almost colliding into Mrs. Plath (little Joshua's dear ol' mum) who was waiting for him by the door.

"You're late!" she hissed, and he raised his hands as if to ward off evil spirits. Which, judging by the look on her face, might not have been far off the mark. The small woman who helped his mother was smart, stern, and packed quite a wallop when Jack deserved it. Which was often enough, truth be told. She paid no regard to the fact that Jack was a man now of twenty-four, and altogether too old to be punished by anyone. To her, he would always be that incorrigible little boy, sneaking around and causing all manner of mischief. "She's been waiting over two hours for ye to show yer sorry hide! She could've just left, and where would ye be then?"

Jack lowered his arms and gave her his most roguish grin.

"Celebrating?"

The woman's face grew redder and, anticipating the slap to come, he raised his arms once more. She hit him on the arm instead.

"I'd beat the devil out of ye boy, if I thought it'd work!" But beating the devil out of Jack Teague was something the elderly Mrs. Plath had given up on many years ago, not that it kept her from trying. She sighed, lowering her arm, and blew a breath out to knock a stray hair out of her vision. Lowering her voice, she added, "You chase off this girl and you break your mum's heart."

And there it was. Not intended to make him feel guilty; not meant to hurt him. Those words were spoken soft and deadly: it was fact, and that was all.

Jack wilted slightly.

"Mum is..."

"In bed. Resting. Now get yerself in there and apologize to the Miss before I beat you in front of her."

Jack nodded, his thoughts removed from the threat, and walked into the dining room. Candlelight danced around, ricocheting off the empty plates and unused silverware, flickering in the face of a stoic young woman. Jack stopped, hands behind his back, and took the moment to look at her: the pretty but blank face with the high cheekbones, the smallish lips, the wavy auburn hair... her features were strong, not at all delicate like a governor's daughter should be (at least in Jack's mind), but there was nothing behind it. No will, no fire, no reason to make anyone look twice. He sighed, dreading the pleasantries that were to come. He almost thought he could have had the conversation without her.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Miss Houghton," Jack lied smoothly, bending at the waist as she rose to greet him. She did not offer her hand and he was relieved for it.

"You're most forgiven, Captain Teague," she said, sounding demure as she seated herself again. Jack pushed in her chair and moved around the table, suddenly aware that his hands were clasped behind his back in that prissy way men of society had. He nearly grimaced. "I would imagine you to be a very busy man."

Jack looked at her as he sat down, wondering (only for a moment) if she was mocking him. But her eyes were clear and her lips slack, no hint of a smile there. He almost felt disappointed.

"Quite busy, yes," Jack said, his voice dry. Best to leave it at that.

A moment later the food arrived, brought in on trays by the housekeeper and cook. Food was laid out in silence, the only sound being the clinking lids which whispered like children with a secret. He watched as their plates and cups were filled, watched knowing he should speak but unable to think of anything to say to break the silence. What did you say to the most bland woman on earth, especially when that woman was about to become your _wife?_

He looked up at her and watched as she cut her food: elbows in, back straight, thin lips set in an attractive line. He marveled again at the fact that he, Jack Teague (who, though he would never admit such a fact, had entertained the company of many a lady less attractive than Caroline Houghton, some of which he had paid for) would find himself so very turned off by a beautiful woman.

_Not her fault really, _he thought, continuing to stare. _She's just all wrong._

She looked up at him and caught his gaze, raising a delicate eyebrow when he didn't look away. He waited for the inevitable small talk to begin, the "No, I insist, call me _**Caroline**_," and the "Oh but what a fascinating job you must have, _**Captain**_..." and before you'd know it she would be redecorating his house and calling his parlor the "sitting room" and turning his dear old mum against him, as wives were wont to do. He gritted his teeth at the thought but to his surprise she didn't speak at all, not for the sake of small talk or anything else. Just sat there without a word, cutting her chicken and looking the very image of prim innocence.

He looked away at long last, reaching for his cup. It wasn't rum, but it would do.

The silence dragged on, the only noise echoing in the room was the clink-slide of their silverware on the dishes. He knew why _he_ wasn't talking, but why wasn't she? Usually women like the Governor's daughter could not be made to shut up, because even if they didn't like the company there was always the topic of themselves to titter on about for hours. He wondered if she was shy.

Taking in the sharp cheekbones and the firm set to her lips, he couldn't help but think that she didn't seem like the type to be shy. He searched his brain for memories of her at special occasions but came up with very little. This, however, could have very well been a reflection on Jack himself, and not Miss Houghton. He spent as little time at balls and the like that he possibly could.

Suddenly, Jack's thoughts were disrupted by the sound of clinking glass. Caroline Houghton had pushed her plate away from her and was now standing. Out of instinct, Jack did the same.

"Leaving so soon, Miss?" he asked, relief creeping into his voice. He didn't try hard to mask it.

She didn't look at him as she began arranging to leave, and Jack was surprised further when the housekeeper rushed in to bring her shawl. He looked to the doorway and saw half of the servants staring in at him, though they scattered when he caught them. He turned back in amazement. Had the whole damn house been watching this debacle of a date?

From the glare on Mrs. Plath's face as she helped the young woman with her shawl, he knew they had.

"I'm afraid I must, Captain Teague," Caroline was saying, and he looked back to see her eyes were down as she spoke. "It was very kind of you to have me over for dinner but I was expected back hours ago."

Her voice wasn't accusing, but Jack felt a surprising prickle of guilt nonetheless.

"Of course," he said, and stepped around the table. "I should escort you home."

"NO!" she said, nearly shouting as her head flew up. Her cheeks flushed at her outburst. "I mean, no. No thank you, Captain. I'll be fine."

Jack looked at her a long moment before finally smiling. He wouldn't have been able to tell her why he was smiling if she asked; after all, there was nothing funny about two miserable people being forced to wed, right? Especially when _both _parties were so clearly opposed to the idea. No, there was nothing funny at all about that. Except he had just realized the reason behind the proper Miss Houghton's silence, and it wasn't shyness nor lack of things to say.

"I insist that you at least allow me to send you home in our carriage," he said, touching her elbow. She jerked away from his touch... just slightly, but Jack noticed it.

"Very well," she said, "And I thank you greatly for your kindness."

He followed her to the door and watched as she walked out of it, a polite flounce of skirts and expensive cloth.

So... it appeared as if Miss Caroline Houghton desired him even less than he desired her.

"That's interesting," he said quietly and smiled again.

In fact, her not liking him was the only interesting thing about her thus far.

* * *

Jack checked in on his mother before passing on to his own bedroom, finding her asleep among a mountain of blankets. She looked so small and frail that for a moment he had to stop and watch her breathe. Satisfied she was fine, he moved on.

Once in his room, he closed the door and began the slow task of undressing, starting by removing his jacket and shirt. Walking over to the small mirror on the wall, he noticed he was still wearing his hat and wig, Grimacing, he removed both and ran his hand over his dark hair, wishing he could simply tie it back like most people did. Leaning forward farther into the smoky mirror, he ran his hand over his face as well, thinking a moustache or beard might be nice.

He hesitated, looking towards the door to make sure it was firmly shut before opening the small closet door. On the top most shelf, not hidden but not in plain sight either, was the pirate hat his father had given him all those years ago. He looked at it for a moment, thinking not one thought but many. Finally he turned to walk away, shutting the door not just on the hat but on the thoughts as well. He did not cut these worries off cleanly, however, because they followed him into the bed as he dropped off into sleep... followed him down in his dreams...

_"We are both men of honor, aren't we?" _said Beckett's voice.

_"I could think of a lot worse things to be than a pirate,"_ Jack replied, only in his dreams.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN:** Ok, so I don't _love_ this chapter. That's ok. I promise the next two chapters are going to be so much better (here's a hint: someone's getting a "mark"). I just have so much to lead up to here.

Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed! Love you! I promise to start replying personally because I am so thankful for the reviews. Extra special thank you to SoftStuff who pointed out some errors in canon I made. Will point them out here as I am working on fixing them: Cutler Beckett shouldn't have yet been a Lord and Jack didn't yet know Gibbs! Sorry!

Now... onto the story!

* * *

_**An Act of Piracy**_

**Chapter Three**

"Jack..." a voice called, frail and feeble. Still, somehow, that whisper of a sound carried into Jack's room and into his sleeping mind. His heart thundering, he opened his eyes and felt around in the darkness for his breeches, pulling them up as he weaved and nearly fell. He was still half asleep and yet just awake enough to panic. These middle of the night trips into his mother's room were becoming more and more common as of late.

Not bothering with a shirt, he stepped into the hallway and pushed open his mother's door. He hesitated a moment to take her in as she lay there, weak hand attempting to push the quilt from her body, her face stricken. He rushed at her, stilling her hand and trying to soothe her. Much to his dismay, he felt her body go limp as she began to cry.

Positioning himself on the edge of the bed, Jack held his mother and rocked her while stroking down the length of her thin hair. After an eternity (only a minute or so), she raised her watery eyes to him and said, "Jacky, I'm hot," signaling the end to this familiar episode. He smiled and kissed her sweaty forehead before leaning her back on the pillows so he could pour her a glass of water from the pitcher on the bedside table. He helped her with it and generally fussed over her much as she used to do for him when he was a child with a mere cold, and by the time he looked at her again she looked normal. Tired, but normal. Only the sweat still standing out on her face betrayed the incident of a few minutes before.

"Jacky," she said, tiny smile. Then touched his face and added, "Sparrow."

Jack colored at the familiar nickname which only seemed to delight her more.

"My little Sparrow has grown up. You'll be getting married soon, and leaving me." Before he could protest she was leaning over the side of the bed, picking something out the sewing basket that she kept at her bedside. "Look, I have a gift for you and your Caroline."

When she had righted herself (and was breathing harder than Jack thought was good for her) she was holding a long piece of handmade lace, which he assumed was a veil. Rather than be sour about it (which was how he tended to be with all things connected with _her_) he decided to make fun. Taking it from her, he draped it over his face and fluttered his eyelashes at her from under it.

"Mum, I love it! Thank you!" he cooed. Her smile was indulgent (as always) when she tugged it away.

Jack's smile faded as he watched his mother stare down at the lace, face tightened in concentration as she ran her fingers over the fabric. It was almost as if she was trying to remember something... not a memory of a time and place but a _feeling_.

"I wore this when I married your father," she said after a moment, her voice barely a whisper. Jack looked at her for a long moment, not sure what to say. Thankfully, she didn't seem to need a response.

Her head came up and she looked at him, knowing him as she always had when he was younger and he was keeping something from her.

"You behave yourself for me, don't you Sparrow." It wasn't a question... not really... but still Jack considered lying. In the end, he just didn't have the heart to do it. Not when she so obviously knew the truth.

"Aye," he said, rather quieter than he meant to. "Only for you."

She continued to look at him, seeing through him in that way that only she could and looking younger than he had seen her look in months. It was a sad thing, watching a mother age, and Jack was suddenly afraid he was handling it all wrong.

"Jack," she said, smiling now. "Jack, you are so much like your father it breaks my heart." When he looked away, she touched his hand, drawing him back. He was surprised to see she was still smiling. He had expected that phrase to be an accusation, accompanied with heartache and hurt.

"I won't lie, Sparrow. I want you to be good. Your father was a pirate and it never did sit well with me, and you know that. But more that... more than I want you to be good, I want you to be happy. I want you to be you. You hear me?"

Jack stared at her, not sure what to say or how to respond. Rather than let the moment continue to draw on and show that she had stunned him, he touched her forehead.

"Are you feeling feverish, mum?" he asked, mock serious. She laughed, a fluttery wonderful sound, and smacked at his hand. Grabbing at his cheek, she held him until they were both serious again and Jack's heart felt sick. She was still smiling just a little, and running her eyes over him as her fingers had done the lace, as if committing him to memory.

"You are so much like your father," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "And sometimes I think I love you more because of it. I know you won't believe this, but your father was a good man. A pirate and a good man."

He closed his eyes a moment, relief filling him in places he hadn't even known were in pain, but said nothing except, "Love you, mum," like a little child. She smiled again and patted his arm. She was almost herself again... that woman that had watched her only son jump out of a tree to break his arm and named him Sparrow for it. Blind recklessness she had called it, (_like the boy thought he was a damn bird!_ She had told Mrs. Plath...)and she would never let him forget. Maybe that was what family really was: the people who saw you at your worst, loved you at your best, and never let you forget either of them.

He helped her back down onto her pillows and then slipped out of her room, running her words through his mind.

* * *

_Two days later..._

"And then, all six of the women asked me to help them out of their kimonos at once. Being a gentleman, I of course obliged them," Jack finished, wicked smile filling in any possible blanks in the story. In front him at the table, his good friend Daniel smiled but didn't laugh. He had finally learned not to mock Jack's outrageous stories, after a few of them had been proven true.

Finishing the rum in one gulp, Jack laid his cup back on the table and regarded the young man he often referred to as "a respectable scoundrel." He called Daniel this because in everyday life he was normal, well-to-do even. There were very few men who knew what Daniel really was: a notorious rum-runner who kept the islands soaked in liquor. He was also (and this part of him was quite well known), the son of the governor.

Caroline's older brother, in other words.

Daniel and Jack had been friends a long time, and over the past few months had come to an unspoken agreement of sorts: Daniel didn't discuss Jack's upcoming marriage, and in turn Jack didn't discuss Daniel's "real job" (he was apprenticing with his father for a career in politics, an occupation which he abhorred). It was a good arrangement, and was rarely broken. But on this day just three short weeks before THE WEDDING (that was how it always came to Jack in his mind... all capital letters, very foreboding: THE WEDDING...) and two days after the horrible dinner, it was hardly surprising that the rule was broken.

"There's something I think you should know, Jack," Daniel said, sipping his own rum. He leaned forward, a slip of red hair hanging awry. "Now I know this may come as shock to you, but there is at least one woman out there who doesn't want you."

"Your sister," Jack said, and he looked as surprised as Daniel had thought he might. "I know."

Daniel leaned back again in his chair, laughing even though he knew what a dangerous topic this was. He couldn't help it; Jack was always making him laugh when he didn't mean to.

"Is that so hard to believe? That she might not want you?"

"No." Jack made a face, clearly contradicting his words. "I just can't figure out _why._"

"But you don't want her either!" Daniel said.

"That's besides the point."

Daniel laughed again and drained his rum glass. Cocking his eyebrow, he gave Jack a wicked smile.

"Between you and me, she thinks you're a bit of a scoundrel."

Jack shared his smile.

"Between you and me, she's right," he said, then looked down into the rum glass, frowning slightly. He supposed he was more than a little drunk, or he wouldn't have sounded quite so forlorn. "I suppose it's best to go into a marriage of this kind with no pretenses." He waited a beat, then asked, "Why does she think I'm a scoundrel?"

Daniel looked at him in disbelief.

"Because you are."

"She barely knows me! The fact that I am, in fact, a scoundrel is secondary. She shouldn't jump to conclusions."

Daniel leveled him with a look, which Jack tried to return but was unsuccessful. It was hard to be indignant with rum pumping through his veins like it was.

"And tell me, Jack... what do you think of my sister?" Daniel asked, still looking amused. Jack stared at the pleasant, red-haired man, wondering for the umpteenth time how two people as different as Danny and Caroline could have shared a womb.

Leaning back, Jack proceeded to count off the many qualities of Caroline Houghton: "She's overly polite, prissy, a bit of a snob, far too quiet for her own good..." Jack could have continued but was stopped by the sight of Daniel with the backs of his fingers over his mouth, fighting back laughter. Frowning further, Jack asked, "Did you have a point _Gov'nr_?"

That shut him up. The smile immediately dropped off Daniel's face.

"What I'm saying is that you _both _barely know each other. You're not the only one who can make snap judgments."

Jack nodded, finished off his own rum, and willed himself to smile.

"And on that note, I will take my leave. I have a pressing appointment up river which cannot be missed." He pushed back the chair, wobbling slightly as he stood. He loved rum for exactly that reason: it was like being at sea on solid land.

Daniel set up straight, looking at Jack with a scowl on his face.

"You aren't going to see that voodoo woman are you, Jack?"

Jack just gave him his best devil-may-care smile and tipped his hat (wig and all) at him.

* * *

"Up river" was a scary place, even for Jack who prided himself on a general lack of fear and overall recklessness. He had been told about the place going on two years prior by a woman claiming to be a witch that he had met in a pub. The woman in the pub Jack had his doubts about; the small lady in the shack with the black eyes... now she Jack believed in. 

As Jack's boat slid through the fog, he felt his stomach begin to twist in the same familiar knots that always appeared when he drew closer to _her._ He supposed part of it came from the fact that seeing her was so very against his nature (he rarely saw the same woman twice and _never_ visited a woman's home. There was just something about the "voodoo woman" as Daniel called her... she was just so much like him at heart that she was unnerving and comforting at the same time. Jack didn't kid himself that he had deeper emotions for her. He knew better than that and if he hadn't he would have stayed away. Actually, in that case she would have kept him away... and that was another reason why he liked her.

He stopped the boat at the end of the small dock and tied it up so that it couldn't float away. He then got out and, upon walking two steps, remembered he was still wearing his hat and wig. Pulling both off, he threw them into the boat, not even caring what they would look like later. It was so damn humid... the air felt like a solid wall he had to walk through.

He didn't knock on the door. He didn't need to. She always seemed to know when he was coming.

"Jack," she drawled, standing from the small table to walk towards him. Her skirts were thick but he could see the sway of her hips under them as she moved. He smiled.

"Tia Dalma," he said. He had to side-step to avoid a bottle of... something hanging from the ceiling. He made a face at it before directing his attention back to the woman.

Tia leaned into him, her dirty face and teeth unable to draw him away from the pull of her eyes. She always looked at him this way, deep and all knowing, as if she was familiar with every part of him. Today, however, there was something else there in her eyes, something that caused his heart to speed up and not in the good way it usually did around her. She almost looked as if... _as if she knew something about him that no one else knew._

"Witty Jack," she purred with a knowing smile. "I knew the winds would blow you back to me someday. You..." here she touched his face and he looked at her, uncertain. "...You have a touch of _destiny_ about you."

Jack shifted under her gaze, suddenly unnerved. Still, he gave her his best roguish grin.

"I bet you say that to all the boys."

She smiled up at him, a slip of a woman really but she seemed so large, so powerful suddenly. Then she said it:

"You are so scared. How long will you run from who ye are, Sparrow?"

_Sparrow._

That was it. That changed everything. He felt his mouth settle into a hard line as he glared at her, trying to not betray his fear.

_That name... how did she know that name?..._

"What did you call me?" he asked quietly. Of all the things she had guessed or gotten right in the past, of all the times she had been waiting for him by the door when he walked in or had known what he was thinking, this was the only time she had scared him. He could feel the air in the room changing, becoming something more.

_Sparrow? How could she have called me that?_

"You know what you be Jack. You know your destiny. How long will you run from it?" Her arm snaked out, grabbing his wrist in a grip that was surprising in its strength. Smiling, she traced a light 'P' over his forearm, her touch leaving gooseflesh behind. He could feel his heart thundering in his chest, a surprising feeling that didn't help things. He jerked his arm away, breathing heavily and not sure why.

_How did she know about that name and what did she mean by my __destiny?_

"You run, Sparrow," she said, still smiling. He trusted Tia Dalma, but this was quite a bit to process. "You run and you come back when you's need me. We both have a destiny to fulfill. You's not gonna run forever."

He took a step back, turned, and collided with the jar of... something hanging from the ceiling. Jumping, he name near scurried to the door and onto the dock.

"You come back," she called behind him, her voice sounding almost otherworldly. "When you ready, you come back."

He made it all the way to the boat before he began to feel silly. After all, this was Tia Dalma... he had shared her bed on and off for nearly two years. She was strange all right, but wasn't that what he liked about her?

Jack looked back at the little hut, fog rolling up around it like curling fingers of smoke. His skin tingled, remembering her touch. He could still feel the whisper of her finger, tracing the letter 'P' over his forearm. He shuddered.

Silly or not, he was leaving.

Jack may have been a lot of things, but stupid surely wasn't one of them.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN:** A very short chapter but the next one is absolutely massive and is already written. It only needs to be typed and should be up in a few days if I get some sort of a response from this. Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed and let me know what they think of this. I can't tell you what it means to me (it really does keep me going, I promise). :D This chapter and the next one I am especially curious to know what you guys think... now that we're finally getting somewhere!

Please read and review! All are appreciated!

* * *

"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose." - _Me and Bobby McGee_ by Kris Kristofferson

_**

* * *

**_

_**An Act of Piracy**_

**Chapter Four**

_The next day..._

'The Wicked Wench' was a sight for sore eyes to Jack, though it had barely been a day since he'd seen her last. Standing at the end of the dock with his hands stuffed down into the pockets of his uniform, he took in the small ship with the white sails beating faithfully in the wind and thought with a smile, _now that's my kind of woman._

The Wench (Jack couldn't have picked a better name had he been given the chance) had been his father's boat when he had sailed for the East India Trading Company. What this meant was this: the ship was old, constantly in need of repairs, and generally the laughing stock of the port. These things, however, paled in comparison to the fact that she was fast and she was _his_. Even if the former hadn't been true, he would have been satisfied with the latter.

The strange encounter with Tia Dalma was still with him on this day, lapping at the corners of his mind like waves on the beach. He shook his head in an attempt push them away, one fear at a time: _she didn't know that was my nickname... it was a lucky guess... she wasn't being serious... it was nothing... _But they clung like burrs, not to be dissuaded. Then there was the matter of Beckett, who had appeared quite suddenly on the docks next to him. Jack looked at him, untrusting. He was a sneaky little bugger, and had been popping up quite more often as of late.

"Yes," Beckett practically purred, looking endlessly pleased with himself for reasons still unknown. "I see you're here early and dressed impeccably as always." He gestured to Jack's wig where a leaf had attached itself to one of the now frizzy curls. Jack pulled it free and flicked it down onto the dock, as unconcerned as he had been when throwing the damnable thing in the bottom of the ship the night before.

"Unfortunately, as I informed you before, you will no longer be at the helm of the Wicked Wench," Beckett said the name as if it was something ill tasting in his mouth, then smiled again. Jack looked at him, mouth slack and eyes narrowed. This was certainly news to him; he had been informed of no such thing. In fact, he could remember almost the exact words Beckett had used last week: _"You have been, shall I say, relocated? I think you will find your new job to be much better suited to a man of your means."_ What the hell did he have planned?

Sensing Jack's discomfort, Beckett's smile grew.

"You will be taking a very special sort of cargo to England today, and this will require a much larger, more reliable sort of ship."

Touching Jack's elbow, he turned him gently to a large ship a little further down the docks. Jack recognized it instantly, and in that moment he felt rage that had been quite noticeably absent for years flare up inside of him. He took a deep breath, feeling his jaw tick as he surveyed the bulky boat in front of him. It was bigger than the Wench; it had to be. Its insides were gutted neatly as a fish and stuffed full with as many men as possible, all standing. But not men, no... not in Beckett's eyes at least. Cargo.

_Slaves._

"This will be your ship. You will be dropping off the cargo in Port Royal where a man by the name of Rawlings will take them off your hands. They will be auctioned accordingly, not that this is any concern of yours." Here Beckett paused, his hand still on Jack's elbow though it was shaking with anger. Clearly, this was the part where he planned on driving his point home:

"I understand that you have particular feelings about freedom, Captain Teague," he said, voice growing lower, smile now gone. "Let me give you a bit of advice that you will do well to remember: freedom is an illusion. You are bound to your government, you are bound to your responsibility, and you are bound to this job. In short, you are bound to _me._ I will remind you again of the great gamble I am taking..."

But Jack held up his hand, having heard enough.

"Thank you," he said, and though he was angry to the point of screaming, he meant the words with every ounce of feeling in him. "I understand completely."

* * *

Jack could not have named the thing about it all that upset him the most. For the sake of total honesty, it was not merely the idea of slavery that caused the events which were to occur shortly thereafter, though that was not a point he was proud of and was never admitted later. The truth was, slavery was more than common place during that time... it was the law. No one was stupid enough to question the practice of it, at least not out loud, and Jack certainly fell in that category of people who were disturbed by it but remained quiet. It was yet another thing he respected about pirates... though some of them had slaves, the vast majority of them let slaves on the boats as equals... as pirates themselves even. After all, who could better understand the concept of being an outcast than a pirate? Who better to understand hard work and being deprived of what they deserved than a slave? It was practically a match made in heaven. 

Until this point though, Jack had considered himself somewhat neutral on the topic. He didn't like it, but what could he do? His dissent certainly wasn't going to stop slavery now, was it? What did the opinion of one troublemaker, not much better than slave himself to the East India Trading Company, mean against all the thousands of people that had convinced themselves that their livelihood depended on slavery?

Then Beckett made his brief little speech, and made up Jack's mind without even meaning to. Not because he had been wrong, but because he had been _right._

_"You are bound to your government, you are bound to your responsibility, and you are bound to this job. In short, you are bound to me,"_ he'd said, and the words echoed through Jack's mind as he walked up the plank to the slave ship he would be taking to Port Royal. Beckett was right. Jack was bound to do as he was told: to shuttle off dozens of men in the cramped quarters of the boat, standing for days, after which they would be herded off the ship and onto the auction block, to be sold like cattle. And Jack was bound by his responsibility to obey, to listen, to dirty his hands and aid in this... this...

"Right," Jack said, though he barely knew what he'd made his mind up about. He straightened his hat as he walked, anger like he'd never felt before coursing through his body. The only thing that stopped him from screaming was the knowledge that it was exactly what Beckett wanted. He had found his weak spot (freedom) and was trying to break him. One foot in front of the other, he forced himself to keep walking until he had made it on the ship. He still hadn't decided on a course of action; the only thing he knew how to do was to keep on keeping on.

The crew was waiting for him when he made it to the helm, quieter than usual. Obviously the "cargo" had already been moved onboard, and every one of his men seemed to be waiting for Jack's reaction. It seemed now that everyone, not just Beckett... not just his crew or family or friends but _everyone..._ had been waiting for the moment when Jack Teague would finally break, and now that it was here, they all stood still to watch, so as not to miss anything.

Jack leaned against the railing, taking a deep, angry breath.

"Captain," a voice said to his left. Jack turned to see Bill Turner watching him. Bill had been a good member of Jack's crew for as long as he'd been Captain, a loyal man that never questioned orders but was too soft hearted to be a good Captain himself. Jack liked him a lot, but more importantly, he trusted him.

"Jack..." Bill said, and this time his eyes seemed to say everything that Jack needed to know. If he went through with this, he would lose everything, but what did he really have to lose? A sense of honor that he had never really wanted? A job he abhorred? A lifetime of servitude and debt? Beckett had been right... Jack was bound to him. But he didn't have to be. He didn't have to be bound to anything if he didn't want to be.

"Bill... Mr. Turner..." Jack started, deciding he better give the man a way out just incase. "We are charting a somewhat different course than originally planned. I would understand if you decided not to..."

"I want to," Bill said, with so much enthusiasm that Jack had to smile. He should have known that if anyone was going to support such an act of piracy that it would be Bill Turner.

"Right," Jack said, and turned to the ocean. His mind was finally made up and he felt better than he had in years.

"Bring me that horizon."

* * *

Beckett was waiting for Jack when he returned from his voyage, as well as a dozen armed officers. Smiling, Jack nodded to the crew and took extra time straightening his jacket, as if preparing himself for a very important event. At the last minute, before stepping onto the dock, he remembered that he was still wearing the hat and wig. Giving the wickedest of grins, he made eye contact with Beckett before chucking both of them into the waters below. He then pulled the ribbon from his hair, smoothed the unruly mess behind his ears, and stepped forward. To the people watching, the approaching man looked like the happiest madman to live. 

"Jack Teague," Beckett said, not entirely unpleasant. Beside him a guard waited, holding a set of irons with which Jack was to be handcuffed. "We have received word from Port Royal that the cargo you were requested to deliver was not received. Am I to understand that you still have it with you?"

Jack put his hand to his chest, feigning shock.

"Why no sir. The _cargo_ was most certainly delivered to where it belonged."

Beckett's eyes narrowed, no longer amused. God only knew how much those slaves had been worth.

"Where did you take them?" he demanded. Jack's lazy smile only grew.

"Where they belonged, mate."

"Africa?" Beckett asked, his voice low and dangerous. Jack shrugged, and it was such a simple movement to incite such fury.

"Chain him!" Becket shouted, as close to genuine emotion as Jack had ever seen him. The man next to Beckett stepped forward and Jack allowed him to chain his hands together without struggling. In front of him, Beckett fumed. He had expected some sort of reaction out of Jack, but apparently such open defiance had not been it. What had he expected? For Jack to refuse to go? Did he think he would make it that easy for him?

"Follow me," Beckett said, and turned to leave. Then, remembering, he turned back. "And the crew as well." Cries went up and now Jack attempted to step forward before being pulled back by the guards. In front of them, twelve rifles were raised to rest on shoulders and the crowd that had assembled gasped.

"The crew didn't know where we were going. They didn't have anything to do with it," Jack said, giving Bill Turner a look that said clearly, _don't say anything stupid, mate._

"I did," Bill said, stepping beside Jack. "I knew exactly where we were going and I helped him."

_Yeah, like that._

Another guard stepped out to chain Bill but Beckett waved his hand.

"All of them." Cries went up again but Beckett was unconcerned, already moving. He walked and the rest of them followed at gunpoint, having no other choice. For a group of people who had made a decision regarding freedom, they had remarkably little of it now.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: Yay, a longer chapter! Sorry this took so long to get to you and that I wasn't able to thank each person for their review... life has been a wee bit crazy but from now on I will reply! Please let me know what you think of the chapter. I can't wait to hear what you think about Jack and Beckett getting their "marks." :) Please, please, please review!**

* * *

_**An Act of Piracy**_

**Chapter Five **

They were lead to the prison where they were divided into two cells. All except for Jack, who Beckett gestured to follow him. The guard behind Jack prodded him into walking, following the prissy man from the dungeon-like prison to a much nicer room a floor up. The room which Jack was led into seemed to be an office of some sorts; Beckett's office, judging by the maps and books which seemed to pay homage to everything involving the East India Trading Company. Against the far wall, despite the warm weather, there was a fire blazing out of the fireplace. The effect was stifling to say the least.

Once inside completely, Beckett gestured to the chains which held Jack's arms.

"Those are no longer necessary," he said, and the guard removed them. Jack wiggled his fingers and rubbed his wrists, watching as Beckett crossed over to the fireplace. The guard remained by the door, watching Jack with shrewd eyes. As for Jack, he was watching Beckett with growing distrust, not sure what to expect from the man who was currently leaning into the mantle place.

I believe," Beckett started, watching the flames flicker inside the grate of the fire, "That it is very important to know one's place in this world."

Jack rolled his eyes. He was growing tired of this speech.

"Our place in this world is molded by the decisions we make," Beckett continued. He spoke this part into the fire, and Jack couldn't help but feel a chill sweep over him, though he didn't understand it. "You made your decision, Jack, when you stole the slaves and freed them. It was an act of piracy..." here he held up a small metal rod, with a 'P' on the end. It was a brand. Jack's heart sped up and suddenly he understood the feeling that had seemed so irrational only a second before, "…And should be treated accordingly."

Swallowing, Jack remembered Tia Dalma tracing the 'P' on his forearm. Before he could move, the guard had grabbed him and was yanking him forward, holding him tightly.

"Let's talk about this mate," Jack started, his voice slurring from fear. The guard slammed his hand down on the table and held it down, elbow and wrist, leaving Jack's forearm exposed no matter how hard he tried to shimmy away. Another guard was called in so that he wouldn't be able to claw at the first guard's hand (as he was shamelessly doing now). Seeing that fighting was getting him nowhere, Jack collapsed in the chair, breathing hard. Beckett stooped in front of him, cold blue eyes boring into wide brown ones, looking fascinated by what he saw.

"There it is," he whispered, and even as scared and irritated as he was, Jack couldn't deny his curiosity.

"What?" he snapped. Beckett smiled, a horrible vision.

"The fear I wanted to see in your eyes," he said, and grabbed Jack's face. Jack tried to jerk it away, but he was being held down by two men, and his hair was flying in his face. Hard fingers dug into the flesh of his cheeks and he stopped struggling once again, hatred flowing out of his eyes in cold waves. Beckett seemed endlessly pleased. "Yes, there it is. I knew I would see it sooner or later. You were harder to break than I thought you would be, but only because I wasn't thinking simple enough. I gave you far too much credit. For months I worked on your pride, your sense of responsibility, your family… I even suggested to the governor that you would be just the man to marry his daughter, thereby endangering your freedom as well…" Jack felt his anger slow enough to look at the man in front of him, actually surprised for the first time in a long while.

"But nothing. No reaction at all. So now here we are in my office. You are going to hang for piracy and I finally got the reaction from you that I wanted… all because of the promise of a little pain." He sneered, a gesture of victory, and Jack felt everything slow down further. Rather than the anger he had expected to feel, he was now moved by something else: determination. His arms went slack; he stopped struggling. Beckett hardly noticed. "How primitive."

He smirked at him a moment longer, but the fun seemed to drain out of it the moment that Jack no longer showed his fear. Seeming determined to bring about that emotion again, Beckett reached for the brand and thrust it in the fire. He let it linger over Jack's skin a lifetime before finally pressing down.

Pain exploded over Jack's arm, not localized to the area where the brand was touching but to his entire body. He bit his lip and threw his head back, fighting to _not_ fight, to not show fear, to not cry out. Beckett pulled the brand off and a piece of his skin came with it, looking almost like liquid. Jack weaved, feeling like he might be sick.

"How's that?" Beckett asked, seeming to genuinely wonder. Jack rocked forward to look at it, sweat beading on his upper lip, and fought to smile. To Beckett, he had never looked more crazy and terrifying.

"Doesn't look like a 'P' to me," he said, matter-of-factly. Sure enough, Beckett hadn't pushed down evenly and the circle at the top of the 'P' was broken. Jack gestured for him to do it again, "If you wouldn't mind. If you're going to do something…"

His face hard, Beckett pushed down again. Though his arm had begun to go numb, a fresh, new pain broke through the old and made Jack whimper. Clamping down on his lips to stop any future noise, he put his head on the table and rolled it from side to side. Again the brand was pulled from his arm, again a piece of melted skin pulled free. They sat there a moment in silence, Beckett breathing nearly as hard as Jack was, before Jack lifted his head. He looked at the wound, tears he hadn't been able to contain sliding down his cheeks, and smiled genuinely.

"It's lovely," he said, smiled widening at Beckett's grim face. "Thank you."

"Leave us!" Beckett growled to the guards, his voice low and dangerous. The guards hesitated, clearly doubting the wisdom of such a decision. "Now!" he shouted, when it seemed they weren't going to listen. The brand clattered to the floor and the guards released Jack, his injured arm feeling like it had been submerged in a lake of fire. He pulled it to him instinctively, not able to control the scream that came out of his lips as the skin pulled open further. In front of him, Beckett stalked over to the door the guards had exited out of and turned a bolt to keep them out. Jack barely noticed him, consumed as he was with his pain.

"You think you're clever, don't you?" Beckett asked, his voice little more than a whisper. "You think you can talk to me any way that pleases you and not suffer any consequences." He had made his way back over to Jack and now grabbed him by the neck, throwing him face forward into the floor before he'd been able to move. Beckett was a smaller man than Jack, and under normal circumstances wouldn't have been able to get away with it. But now Jack's arm was on fire, and the circumstances were hardly normal…

Jack threw out his arm to avoid landing on it, and almost out of nowhere he felt the tips of his fingers touch the cool handle of the metal brand. Everything seemed to crystallize in that moment: the world slowed down, the pain (while certainly not disappearing) took a back seat to the feeling of power that swept over him. He smiled, and wrapped his fingers around the rod.

Beckett bent over him, perhaps to make a final blow, and was surprised by that very thing from Jack, albeit of the more physical kind. Jack rolled and swung wide, the brand connecting hard with Beckett's jaw. He didn't go down immediately but he did stumble back, clutching his face in horror as blood slid through his fingers. Jack was on his feet in seconds, the still hot brand hovering only an inch or two from Beckett's face.

"Scream, mate. I'll brand your face beyond recognition before they even get through that door."

Beckett closed his mouth, his eyes wide and his lip pouring blood. Jack smiled and was surprised to find that, despite the pain, he still found this prissy man amusing.

"Here, here," Jack tutted, laughing when Beckett jerked away from the brand. "You talk a lot about weakness and the such and now I've finally found yours: pride. You'd hate to have that pretty face of yours marred, wouldn't you?"

"You wouldn't dare!" Beckett hissed, though his red face betrayed his fear.

Jack held out his mangled forearm, showing off the 'P' barely visible in the broken skin. When it started to heal though, it would make a nice mark. Jack was almost proud of it.

"Pirate," he said simply, grinning all the harder.

"You're mad!" Beckett said, and Jack nodded. He had no doubts about that anymore. Grabbing the first cloth object that he saw (which turned out to be a bit of a table cloth) Jack stuffed it in his mouth and threw him down on the floor before he could hardly process what had happened. He then took the chains which, only minutes before, had bound Jack and used them to cuff Beckett's hands behind his back.

Jack plunged the brand back into the fire, watching Beckett attempt to struggle.

"I believe it is important to know one's place in this world, don't you agree?" Jack asked, to which Beckett screamed around his gag and was not heard. "Good, good. I'm glad we see eye to eye on that." Jack pulled the brand out of the fire and placed it, red hot and glowing, in front of Beckett's face. His muffled screams ceased. "Now, you've given me this 'P' which I assume stands for pirate. Clever that. And true, too, I suppose. But 'P' can stand for all manner of other things as well, can't it? Like pride. Or pompous. Or even prissy." He smiled, looking down on the man who usually looked so in control and who was now crying while he struggled. Jack almost felt a twinge of sympathy before remembering all the things this man had done to him. He wasn't Tia Dalma, but he had a feeling that Beckett would only do worse things before he was done. So he wouldn't kill him, but he wouldn't leave him without a mark of his own, either. It was the least Jack could do… as a little gift… to remember him by.

"I'd like this to stand for that last one, if you don't mind," Jack said, his smile returning. "Now, where should I…"

* * *

Jack walked through the halls of the prison, keys swinging around his hand. He had knocked out the guard upstairs and the one at the bottom of the stairs and was surprised to know that he felt no remorse. Only pain, and he felt plenty of that. 

"Jack!" Bill Turner called, reaching through the bars to grasp his arm before seeing the mangled flesh and stopping short. Then, upon seeing the look on Jack's face, he lowered his voice and asked, "Jack, how did you get free? Did you kill him?"

Jack pulled the key ring from his wrist and inserted a random one in the lock, the men gathering behind Bill to watch his progress. When it didn't work, he removed it and tried another one, careful to keep the first away from the rest.

Surprisingly, he smiled.

"No, Bill. He's not dead. He won't be sitting down for a while, but he's not dead."

Bill looked at him, curious but not stupid enough to ask him now what he meant. The keys clinked again on the metal bars and three more were tried. After the fourth, it turned and there was a creak as the door swung open. Jack's crew pushed forward and he turned to walk out before stopping to say something to Bill. Behind him, nearly a dozen men had to jerk to a stop to keep from colliding into him.

Jack looked at them in confusion, not sure why they were following him like a litter of puppies. Bill smiled at him somewhat sheepishly and gestured to the men.

"They want to go with ye, Jack. I want to go with ye. We owe you our lives."

Jack found this doubtful, as he had been the reason they were going to hang in the first place, but was not nearly dumb enough to bring this to their attention. Perhaps, he thought, they knew but had wanted to be pirates themselves so badly that they didn't care.

"Very well."

They followed him out the back into the damp darkness of the alley, trudging along in silence. Jack's mind was moving so fast it was like he wasn't thinking at all; he fluttered from thought to thought without completing any of them. All he could think was this: there was no undoing the events of this day and there was no being "Jack Teague" ever again. From now on he was a different person, a pirate, and he would have to look and act accordingly.

A man was lying in the alleyway, dozing with the rats. Jack looked at him a moment, considering, before tapping the old man with the toe of his boot. He was wearing a dirty white shirt and a surprisingly nice jacket, no doubt stolen. The effect of the jacket was somewhat ruined by the dirt which covered it but still, it was to Jack's taste.

"Mate!" Jack kicked the man again. "Wake up, mate. I've a proposition for you."

* * *

Once changed, Jack headed for home while he still had the chance. The crew had been given orders to have the Wicked Wench ready to make sail by the time he returned, which (as Bill had warned) better not be long or all might be lost. Jack entered the house as quietly as he could, tip-toeing up the stairs to his room and skipping the stair that (he had learned in his teen years) creaked loudly when stepped upon in the middle of the night. Jack was convinced that the stair remained silent during normal hours, as if it had been charmed for the sole purpose of letting his mother and Mrs. Plath know when he was being wicked. It was silent now as he stepped over it, though he tripped near the top and noise reverberated throughout the house. 

Once inside his bedroom, he grabbed the small sack of money he had kept in a drawer and moved to leave. Then, remembering, he walked back to the closet and retrieved the hat from inside. Smiling, he placed it on his head and surveyed himself in the mirror. Though his face was streaked with dirt and tears and his hair was thick with the sweat that was in it, he still thought he made a pretty nice picture.

The hat, of course, was a perfect fit.

He left his room a minute later, nearly colliding with Mrs. Plath in the hallway. He took a deep breath to prepare himself from the coming onslaught but his words died on his lips. He knew something was wrong the moment he looked at her; it was in everything she didn't say. Not one word about his hat, arm, or clothes. She just looked at him with tear-filled eyes and said, "Jack… she… your mother…"

He shoved past her, nearly knocking her into the wall in his haste. His mother was lying on the bed as she had spent the last several months, but now the blanket had been pulled over her head. He ran to her, yanking the sheet away and staring down in shock at her soft, peaceful face.

"I'm sorry, Jack," Mrs. Plath whispered from the doorway. Jack had never heard the woman speak so quietly. "I came in to check on her and it was just too late. I called for the doctor… Joshua went to fetch him."

Jack slid down onto the floor, unable to speak. If he had to describe the emotion it would have been simply this: pain, blinding and all encompassing. It filled his mind like a headache, as physical as the wound on his arm only larger, taking up every ounce of space in his heart until he could barely breathe. He placed his head on the blanket, a sob like Beckett had never been able to get out of him wrenching out of his chest. His mother, the only woman that could have possibly persuaded him to behave, was gone.

"I'm sorry, mum," he whispered, hot tears biting his eyes. He never wanted to feel this again. He never wanted to watch another person he loved die, not if he could help it. And hot on the heels of that thought, irrational, unyielding: _I don't ever want to love again. Not if this is how it ends up. I don't want any part of it. _

He pulled the sheet back completely, seeing the scrap of lace locked in her fingers. He pulled it away, his tears sliding onto it, and let out a breath. He could remember her words from a few days before…

_"__I wore this when I married your father. You are so much like your father. And sometimes I think I love you more because of it. I know you won't believe this, but your father was a good man. A pirate and a good man."_

Standing, he looked down on her and wrapped the lace around his hand, tucking the edge in under his palm. He stared at it a long moment before finally righting himself and turning to leave. Mrs. Plath was waiting by the door.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again, and she surprised him by grabbing his sleeve. Now she looked more like herself: strong and fierce.

"Don't you say that," she said, tears in her eyes. "Don't you dare. That woman in there died thinking that you were the best man on this earth. Don't you apologize for something you didn't do."

"But I…"

"You are what you are, Jack. You can't help that. Now get out of here before they come for you. I've already sent the East India Trading Company away from this house once today."

Jack gave her a watery smile and hugged her to him.

"Thank you," he said, feeling a bit overwhelmed. He'd been prepared to give up everything until it had been taken from him, and for the first time he could fully see what he was leaving behind. Now what was left of him? Where did he go and what did he do?

Surprising him further, she tapped his hat and he pulled away.

"Suits you," she said. He let out a bark of laughter and had to wipe the sudden tears from his eyes.

"What's your pirate name?" she asked him, and Jack shrugged.

"I don't know. I was thinking maybe _Jack the Great and Terrible…_" Upon Mrs. Plath's skeptical face, he laughed. "Or not"

His gaze once more traveled down to the lace around his hand, then to his mother lying on the bed. His smile became something more melancholy.

"How about… Jack Sparrow?"

Mrs. Plath sighed, eyes crinkling up, and smiled.

"Captain Jack Sparrow," she corrected. "Yes I think that'll do just fine."

* * *

Jack was at the docks only a few minutes later, running towards the port where the Wicked Wench should be. He was surprised when a hand snaked out and pulled him, kicking and hitting, into a dark alley. 

"Jack! Jack, it's me! It's Bill!"

Jack calmed once he saw that the man really was Bill Turner and stopped struggling. Before Jack could ask why he was being manhandled, Bill pointed out into the port where a ship appeared to be sinking.

The Wicked Wench.

_His_ ship.

"Beckett," Jack whispered, murder on his mind.

* * *

**AN: hmmm... guess now we know what Beckett made that face when asked what mark Jack left on him! lol. Remember, please review and let me know what you think. All are appreciated!**


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